It's beginning to look a bit like the run-up to Christmas..ish.

It's here! The 1st of December! You are now formally allowed to get excited about Christmas! I have a bit of a reputation for being a bit 'bah, humbug!' about the festive season, which isn't entirely justified. It isn't Christmas per se that I dislike, more the silly buggers that get excited about it in May. I can't be doing with the 'only 209 sleeps til Christmas!' gubbins that litters my Facebook newsfeed, and talk about how many re-mortgages you've had to make to buy your little princess her tartan unicorn with 9ct gold horseshoes, and Sylvanian Families Buckingham Palace.

I do like Christmas, honest I do. Very little can beat the look on The Childbeasts faces as they came downstairs on Christmas morn. The Daughter was so excited she was shaking like a pigeon in a cattery. I've been trying to remind her of this as the big day approaches, because her behaviour has been dreadful and she currently deserves nothing other than a Satsuma and a smacked bum. Our threats of no presents have fallen on deaf ears for months now, so today I brought out the big guns: Santa called. When I say Santa, I mean that I rang my mobile from the home phone. I'd reached my limit of tears, tantrums and smart-arse retorts, so while The Husband was trying his hardest not to drown her in the bath, I put my evil plan into action. As my phone flashed up 'Santa Claus' (along with a 'Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer ringtone for added oomph), I went into the bathroom saying "I don't know how he got hold of my number but look who's ringing me!", and showed her the phone. She immediately burst into tears and shrieked "I already know what he's going to say! I'm on the naughty list, I know it!". I partly closed the door and stood in the hallway, talking to Santa in my most earnest sounding voice.. "Yes Santa, I understand...I know Santa, I'm disappointed too..", whilst relishing the hushed anticipation coming from the bathroom and trying not to laugh.

I had to recant our conversation, word for word, spinning a web of lies involving Santa being able to see everything and having a magic phone. And yes - it did work! Her behaviour this evening has been exemplary, with the odd reminder that Santa will be ringing back in a week to check she's behaving herself.  While I sit, smugly thankful for the results that lies, bribery and deceit have had, I am suddenly struck by a horrifying thought - what on earth will I do when she no longer believes in Santa?!!

Divine intervention.

As religion goes, I'm a 'live and let live' kinda gal. As long you don't either a) ram it down my throat on my own doorstep or b) shoot someone for saying that God is a woman, I have no strong feelings either way. I can completely understand how some people find strength in faith, just as I can see how others need definitive proof of something tangible in order to believe.

The Childbeasts attend a church affiliated school, but this is more to do with its reputation than it's religious orientation. I don't have a problem with them attending worship, or studying religion, and The Daughter does seem to be growing up as a believer. Well, mainly when she wants something. A few weeks ago she came back from the grandparents with an acorn, and on this acorn she'd drawn a smiley face. As she often does, she got the urge to destroy it by taking the top bit off (which I liked because I thought it looked like a little acorn hat). The Husband said no, that he thought it would ruin it. But away she went and wrenched it off anyway. And then started sobbing because it had wrecked it. "WHHHHHHHHYYYY?!" she wailed, "Why did God let me do it?!" And as we stood, aghast and wondering how on earth it had become the good Lords fault, she looked to the heavens and her little mouth began to whisper. "Erm, Jenny?" The Husband said, laughing, "are you praying for God to fix it?" Casting us a dirty look, she flounced off and threw Mr Acorn with the rest of the broken crap she's accumulated.

That incident reminded me of how, when I was young, I would pray really hard if I had lost something. There would be a bit of bargaining going on, of the 'if you help me find my French homework I promise I'll never say 'bugger' again' kind. Which, to be fair, quite often worked. Although how much of it was down to God helping me out rather than me tearing my room apart, I'm not sure.

But after an experience in Matalan (of all places), I may have to reconsider my religious perspective. As I was paying, the Jamaican woman in the queue next to me patted me on the shoulder and said, with a sympathetic look on her face, "Trust in Jehovah" and walked away.  I could perhaps have understood this divine intervention if I'd been drunk in the middle of the day, swearing and offering the other shoppers a fight, but I was only buying a cat-print snood! Does Jehovah really have such a strong opinion on cats? Or snoods? Either way, she seemed to think I needed help from the Lord. I think I might have to get The Daughter to pray for me. And possibly donate my snood to charity.

What's in a word?

My name is Kirsty and I love words. All of them. Everything about language fascinates me; how we learn to speak and write, how our brain makes associations and applies grammatical rules to form new sentences, how words can be used to evoke all kinds of emotions from anger to joy. Of course, while the right selection of words can have consequences ranging from the hilarious to the catastrophic, the wrong words can be just as effective..

The Daughter has always been articulate and frequently - although not always intentionally - funny. It's the things that she gets wrong that make us laugh the loudest and hardest, and that makes her the most furious! From her weather-orientated bloopers - "Look outside! It's shittering it down!", to her culinary blunders - "This bubonic sauce (balsamic vinegar salad dressing) is actually quite nice", her little funnies have earned the name 'Nennyisms', which have become all the more poignant since she learned the written form. Since then, her quaint little turns of phrase have taken on a whole new dimension, as she writes letters to her friends, and leaves us little notes...

Boyface has started to follow in his sisters footsteps, although it's the pronunciation of words he struggles more with. He would gleefully shout about the "church cock (clock) and "fags (flags..I hope) on the park". I'm sure I've given my parents the same sort of laughs over the years though; they never let me forget about the time we were driving through a place I called Birminghamshire. And I do remember being very literal in my pronunciation of words when I was younger. I pronounced Penelope as 'Penner-low-pee' and Parade as 'Parradee'. But despite my own somewhat shaky introduction to the English language, I am now a fully paid up degree holder who loves to read and write. And so the next time The Daughter is playing with a pair of Lego Ninja Turtles nunchucks and says "I know what to do with these gymnackers!", after I've finished wetting myself laughing I will tell her she has a bright future ahead. And that if she ever finds herself in Birminghamshire, she should look out for the church cocks and the fags on the park..

The lowest form of wit

Someone told me a while back that children don't really understand the concept of sarcasm until they're about eleven (my smart-mouthed daughter is only 6 so I'm reserving judgment on that, but let's run with it..). If this is true, I pity any child that comes into contact with myself or The Husband, because sarcasm is what we do. We both graduated from University with degrees in Sarcasm and General Ridicule (him with 3rd class, me with a 1st - natch).

Our own kids are subjected to this relentless wisecracking on an almost daily basis. Sometimes they go with it, answering with a weary "Oh you are silly daddy.." (it's always him because he takes it too far) and a pitying shake of the head. Sometimes it riles them to the point of hysteria, and I have to step in because I just can't bear the tears. But sometimes, it's just too much to resist and we go wading in to battle, side by side in our mission to wind up the offspring.

Like tonight for instance. On emptying The Daughters lunchbox I discovered that, yet again, she'd taken the cheese out her sandwich and essentially just had bread for lunch. In our quest for a sandwich filling she will actually eat, we've gone through pretty much every variety of meat and cheese that Asda stocks. And so, whilst buttering the bread for tomorrows sarnies, we saw this as a prime urine-extracting opportunity. "If you don't like this cheese," The Husband began, "I don't know what we're going to do because we've tried all the others". "Why, what is it?" The Daughter enquired. "Well, I've milked all of the cats and...". "DADDYYYYYY!" she shouts, knowing that silliness is imminent. Well, it was just too much to resist; I rolled my metaphorical sleeves up and joined in. "You know how 'Cathedral City' is spelt c-a-t...?" I asked her with a knowing raise of the eyebrow and BOOM!  The fish bit the worm and I reeled that sucker in!

It's when it's other people's kids that the problem arises, and The Husband in particular can't seem to resist winding up our daughters tiny dinner guests. the boy from down the street came round at the weekend and the kids sat watching 'Monsters Inc.'. The Daughter - being an almighty show off - announced "I've seen 'Monsters University". Not to be outdone, the little lad said "I've seen 'Monsters University too!". And The Husband, doing what he does best, said "I've BEEN to Monsters University - that's where I got my degree". The poor kid didn't know what to think, but I bet the rumour is already well on its way around school that Jenny's daddy went to a cartoon university.

In a way it's a good thing that kids can be so easily wound up; it's not going to be half as much fun when all we get for our efforts is a smart-arsed retort. Sarcasm may be the lowest form of wit, but it's also the most enjoyable!

Welcome to the rest of your life!

Another milestone reached in the Bobs household! The Boychild had his first day at school last Thursday and there was a collective sigh of relief as it went without a hitch. That's a ridiculous understatement actually; he saw the cars and toy garage in the corner of the classroom and flew over without so much of a backward glance. The words "Charlie, can I have a cudd.....?" were left hanging in the air as I stood, bereft and still clutching his Spiderman lunchbag feeling like a bit of a sap. To be fair though, none of the teeny tiny new starters seemed particularly perturbed by their abandonment in this new environment. It was the following day that reality seemed to hit - they had to go AGAIN?! There were a few tiny people sobbing and clutching onto their parents legs, having realised that this school lark wasn't all it was cracked up to be. Not my lad though, oh no. Not while there was a car to sczhum in that classroom!

Photo's were of course taken to mark the momentous day of our last (probably) baby starting school, and how smart did he look! Such a grown up boy with his spiked up hair and clean uniform. true to form though, his groomed appearance lasted about 12 minutes before his shirt was untucked, his shoes were scratched, and he'd got grass-stains on his face. I wouldn't expect anything less though - I've always been one of those people who, even when freshly showered and glammed up, I still look a bit of a scruff. So of course, it follows that my two will always look like Victorian street urchins.

Tomorrow marks the beginning of his first full week, so we'll see if his enthusiasm wanes at all. All I'm bothered about is that a) he manages to keep his trousers on, b) he doesn't show everyone his peen and c) he doesn't get expelled. Rules which I expect will follow him through the next 11 years of school life and beyond! Even from his initial two days, it seemed like he'd grown up that bit more and now I have another child to worry about developing attitude, and hanging about with the wrong crowd. There is a boy in The Daughters class who apparently said to her last week "I love poo I do, I'm going to eat some of my poo in a minute" (clearly the sort of boy that every parent hopes their child will flourish into) and I made a mental note to make sure my naïve little darling doesn't befriend any drug dealers, vandals or poo-eaters. So here it begins; the next stage in all of our lives. So long as my little angels are happy and thriving I will try and forget that nagging empty nest feeling. maybe it's time to start trying for little baby Cheesecake...?

What's in a name?

You might have seen in the papers or on 'This Morning' a while back, that horsey-looking posh woman who used to be on 'The Apprentice', spouting her nonsense about such subjects as fat people and kids with chavvy names. Katie Hopkins, that's the badger; with a posh name like that obviously she's more than qualified to pour scorn on the Kylie's and Charmaine's of this world (did the sarcasm come across ok?). What she basically said, in a judgmental nutshell, was that she wouldn't allow her own precious offspring play with school friends who had names which suggested a lower class (Tyler and Chardonnay were the examples she gave), and hated when parents called their children after celebrities, or place names... momentarily forgetting she'd named one of her own darlings 'India'.

Anyway. I won't be getting involved in the big name debate because - let's face it - I'm bound to offend someone. In the privacy of my own home I may cast a cursory snigger at the poor little buggers who have been cursed with being such names as 'Apple' (Gwyneth Paltrow and Chris thingy from 'Coldplay'), or 'Jermajesty' (son of Jermaine Jackson. Seriously. I know - it sounds like one of those words Nicole Scherzinger makes up..Schamazing!) Being the product of a celebrities loins makes it slightly more acceptable to have a daft name, because it doesn't make a difference to the opportunities that life opens up when your dad is a multi-millionaire rocker. But let's face it, you've got fluff-all chance of an interview if you're sending in CV's headed with the name MoonUnit Smith.

The reason behind all of my chattering is that (thanks to my stupid sprained ankle), I've been watching an awful lot of rubbish telly. And I realised that, in all of the soaps or 'reality' shows etc, does anybody share their name with another character. Obviously in Hollyoaks this is a given; it's unlikely you'd catch two people with the name 'Mitzeeee' living in the same street. But in Eastenders, Emmerdale, Corrie, I've struggled to find two characters with the same name. And I know that's probably because it would get a bit confusing for the script writers, but still - it's not very realistic.
I think about the kids at my daughters school and there's a good few groups of 3 or 4 that share names, because that is realistic. Two of my friends have husbands who share the same name and spelling of my other half - and he hasn't got a particularly common name.

But when it comes to names, while I think that nasty Hopkins woman is nowt but a snob (I mean, why would you punish a child for something their parent had done?), there is a point somewhere in her diatribe. Because who can deny that, when they were plumbing the depths of their minds and baby books for prospective names, they didn't skip past the ones that had memories of someone they'd known before? "Noooooo! I'm not calling him Simon*! There was a kid in Juniors called Simon who used to eat his ear wax!" (*names for illustrative purposes only). So names do have connotations for us, even if we don't take things as far as Horsey Hopkins. I've stuck with fairly sensible names for my two - The Daughter is named after my sister who died when we were young, and The BoyChild is named after my granddad. I might just throw all sense out of the window if we have a third though...any thoughts on Cheesecake Hague anyone??

Accidents happen...

One afternoon (about fifteen years ago actually), myself and some Uni friends were taking the rise out of one of our group who had broken his ankle playing basketball. After we'd exhausted the 'hopalong', 'clubfoot', 'clumsy tw@t' insults, I uttered the immortal words "I've never broken a bone before, I wonder what it feels like..?" (I know you know what's coming but don't ruin the punchline before I've told the joke!) Later that evening, I answered the communal phone in the halls of residence and the caller was the mum of my next door neighbour, who'd I'd just seen walking down the stairs. So I ran, full pelt, after her shouting. My shout quickly turned into a shriek as I fell from the top to the bottom, folding my leg firmly underneath me as I went. As I sat in a crumpled, sobbing heap in the stairwell, two things happened. Firstly, the girl whose mum was on the phone walked past me and laughed (Bloody laughed!!) and said "What are you doing down there?". I was in too much pain to say something clever like "Using my tears to wash the floor with my bum" so I just cried a bit more. And then, just to wind me a bit more, the aforementioned doofus who'd broken his ankle came over all Doc Marten and told me in no uncertain terms that mine wasn't broken.

As I returned from hospital many hours later, with a purple cast covering my two broken bones (TWO!! In your face basketball boy!!), I was in no doubt as to what a broken bone felt like. And the novelty wore off very early on in the eleven weeks I had to wear that I had to wear that cast for. Eleven weeks of wearing baggy sweatpants, of hobbling about with a humungous plastic shoe. And don't get me started on the weeks of having to build up my wizened old stick of a leg after the cast came off - it was like a knitting needle covered in dried skin and hair!

Of course, it was all downhill after the first break, having been jinxed by those haunting words. I then went on to break a finger decorating the kitchen (I knocked a clock off the wall, and in a save worthy of Peter Shilton, I grabbed the clock before it hit the ground. Smacking my finger on the doorframe in the process). And the hat-trick was breaking my middle knuckle chucking the cat out through the patio doors. I would rather go through childbirth than do that again, seriously.

I thought that after the three, my bone breaking days were done and behind me. And so yesterday - bank holiday Monday - as we joined the throngs of tourists at the Heights of Abraham in Matlock, it was just my luck that my ankle decided to spectacularly miss a step. My body did this crazy kind of fall flailing/grab something/nearly throw up from the pain thing. All in front of a beer garden of bikers. The kids had an exciting afternoon running round a hospital waiting room and were probably more excited about Mummy's "Skilts" (crutches) than they were about the cable cars and sightseeing.

My bones thankfully remain unbroken this time; my soft-tissue injury has been strapped up, elevated and regularly has painkillers directed at it. I have my Skilts to hop around on, and The Husband is doing his Husbandly duties - ringing me to tell me not to attempt the hoovering and helping me hobble to the loo. I have decided that it is just too risky for me to leave the house. If I venture out, it will be with a crash helmet and my limbs covered with bubble wrap   Heck, if I can break my hand painting and putting the cat out, it's probably safest if I just stay in bed!

Holidays from hell.

It has begun; the vacuum of time and space that is The Six Weeks Holidays (dun-dun-DUNNNNNNN!) We're now into the second week, and we're all still alive and relatively sane so that's a bonus. The Husband and I are taking time off on alternate weeks to make sure we don't use all our holiday entitlement up. Last week was my turn to spend a small fortune entertaining them and being referee to the fights over Lego theft and under-the-table-kicking matches. This week it's The Husbands turn. He's already taken them on a three day holiday to Essex where they breakfasted on bagels and slept in bunkbeds (how can I ever compete eh?).

I finished work early today and, determined to make the most of our family time, we  took the Childbeasts swimming. They were both ridiculously excited on the way there - even Charlie, because he hadn't remembered at that point that he hates it. Of course, as soon as the thrill of wearing his Spiderman armbands had worn off (just as he got to the edge of the pool) that was it - he wanted to get out before he'd got in. There was a good hour of shrieking, clinging on with fingernails embedded deep into parental flesh, and us repeating "No, we're not getting out" several hundred times before we finally managed to convince him this was fun and prise him off. The Daughter didn't aid matters by following him around showering him with a yellow toy watering can, although it did help to wash the snot off his face; every cloud and all that. But as soon as he was released into the water, that was it. With about 20 minutes to go before the pool closed, he decided he did like it after all and was off into the water with his teddy bear shaped float, splashing the bejesus out of everyone. We should have expected it really, little animal that he is, but our boy decided to make sure he showed us up before we left by pootling over to a little boy and his dad and announcing "I trumped I did!" in a delighted voice. I also made a bit of a tit of myself by climbing aboard a large foam horse and managing to stay on for about 2 seconds before flailing back into the water like a duck on ice.

Now, as it to be expected, you see some sights in public swimming baths and today was no let down. In the pool I spotted a woman with her eyebrow pierced. Nothing out of the ordinary there I hear you say. Except for her having a piece of jewellery meant for belly button piercings through the hole in her eyebrow. An enormous blingy crystal poked her in the eye every time she blinked, like a ridiculous mobile chandelier. And the lifeguard watching over the teaching pool was so colossally overweight and gormless, he didn't look as though he could save a fart in a jam jar. I looked at him and wondered if he'd passed his lifeguarding tests before or after he ate all the pies? Although I suppose in the event of an emergency we could all have clambered aboard his tummy and rowed to shore.

So from events thus far I can conclude several things. That I am too old (and sober) to be goating about on foam horses. That some body jewellery really is not interchangeable. And that I will end up having to sell my remaining kidney to fund my children's entertainment before the holidays are out.  For all others who are on their way to a stress/child induced stomach ulcer - hang in there, only five weeks left to go!

Life is a rollercoaster

Last week I took one of my service users to Alton Towers for a day trip. It was a brilliant day out, with good weather and, thanks to a special red wristband we got on every ride without having to queue - a day out made all the better by not having to queue for an hour and a half at a time with the sweaty general public. The last time I went there was about 5 years ago with a friend. My overwhelming memory of that day was said friend and I putting on our cheap Primark ponchos to go on the 'Congo River Rapids' (yes, I know half the fun is getting soaked but I didn't want to walk round all day with a soggy rear!), and when she leant forward to hold on to the handrail her poncho split open down the back. I laughed so hard I nearly weed and tears trickled down my poncho. Prior to that I went with The Husband; we ran straight for 'Nemesis before it got busy, went on four times on the trot and spent the rest of the day feeling sick. I didn't want to take any chances so this time I went fully prepared and chewed a few of the travel sickness tablets I'd bought for The Boychild aka 'Car-sick Kid'.

It worked; despite going on all of the big rides at least once, the contents of my stomach remained in situ. Which is more than can be said for the poor chap with the delicate constitution we saw getting off 'Nemesis'. He flew past us, his face as grey as his jumper and lost his lunch to the floor. One of the ride attendants went straight into Jobsworth mode and repeatedly screamed "MIND THE SICK!! MIIIIIND THE SIIIIIIIIICK!" whilst flamboyantly ushering other ride-goers around the vomit puddle. He must have been properly hardcore though as we saw him 5 minutes later - still grey - queuing up for 'Air'! Hat's off to you fella, hat's off.

What I had forgotten about being at a theme park all day is that special kind of knackeredness you get from repeatedly having your adrenalin levels fly up and down like a jack in the box. By lunchtime I was so exhausted I was getting too weak to brace myself on the rides and just allowed myself to be flung about like a ragdoll. My throat was ravaged by all the screaming I'd done in the morning and could now only emit small croaks of fear. We saved Alton Towers newest ride, 'The Smiler', until last. Probably a good idea as it left me so traumatised that if we'd gone on it first, I'd have had to go for a lie down. It has 14 loops, although it feels like a hundred. After about an hour of being subjected to medieval torture techniques we came to a halt and I sagged with relief. Until I looked to my right and saw a huge sign saying 'Halfway there..'. And nearly cried. I'm sure whoever called it 'The Smiler' did so with a smirk of irony because I certainly wasn't smiling when I disembarked. I was too busy swearing and wondering if I was bleeding from my eyes and ears.

No theme park trip is complete without frittering away a weeks wages in the gift shop on the way out and I spent with the abandon of a woman glad to have survived the previous 6 hours. I slept like a baby that night, and realised one thing - that if I have to take travel sickness pills beforehand and if I'm left feeling like I've completed a marathon at the end of the day - I'm probably getting a bit too old for it all. Maybe it's time to hand the thrill-seeking baton over to The Daughter, and look for more sedate ways of having fun. Who am I trying to kid? I'll still be rollercoastering when I'm 75! And The Daughter? Well, she can either come on too...or hold my dentures for me!

Flying the nest

My baby boy, the youngest Childbeast, will be 4 next week. With this realisation comes a whole avalanche of emotions; most based around the fact that in a few short months my little lad will be starting school. My mini-man, who has a blanket with a lions head on it called Noonie in bed with him, who gets his head stuck in the sleeve of his t-shirt and panics, who still battles with the urge to poke a finger in the cats bottoms, will be joining the big boys and girls on his journey through the education system. I'm scared mainly; that he'll get upset because he won't get to 'schzum' cars all day, that his constant demands of "Watch this!" to the teacher will result in a telling off and then tears, that when he comes out of the tiny school toilets with his trousers round his ankles and his trinklements poking over the top of his 'Fireman Sam' pants, his exclamation of "Me peen's sticking out!"  won't elicit the laughter he has come to expect.

The Daughter was more than ready to start school and I had no concerns about how she would settle in. But The Boy is so different in so many ways. I'm to attend a meeting with his new teacher, in which I have to answer questions about his abilities, skills, personality etc, with the aim of them knowing what sort of level he is at. I remember with The Daughter I was asked whether she could eat with a knife and fork, if she could dress/undress herself, could she write her name, count up to 20, what her interests were and so on. I have to prepare the Reception class teachers for a boy who would happily eat all his meals with his fingers, even beans - like a monkey picking peanuts out of poo. He can dress himself, if they're happy with him wearing his clothes backwards and inside out (rather like a tiny member of Kriss Kross - remember them?). And his interests are schzumming cars and showing you his bum, things I hope he will grow out of before he needs to start compiling his CV.

For selfish reasons too, I don't want him to grow up. He's (probably) the last of my babies, and still a real sweetie. He's affectionate, and innocent, and as soon as they start school the eye-rolling, attitude and answering back starts. I want to keep him as my little dude forever; to have him sit on my knee and suck his thumb when he's tired. But I know he has to grow up, just as I know I have to let him. And if in time I start to get broody and my womb starts to skip a beat at the sight of newborn babies, I'll just let The Husband know that it's time for another....cat!!

Hell hath no fury

'Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned', 'The female of the species is more deadlier than the male', 'Dispute not with her; she is lunatic'. See, even Shakespeare knew it - women are evil. Not all women, granted; there may be a certain few who manage to go about their daily lives in a calm, level-headed manner without the compulsion to gossip, bitch or moan. I refer predominantly to nuns, although I suspect this has less to do with religion and more to do with the fact that they don't have to co-habit with men leaving the toilet seat up.

I am a woman myself of course, and therefore allowed to label the majority of the sisterhood as half-crazed hormonal harridans. Men, however, are not able to do this without being labelled as misogynistic gits. As a female, you learn from an early age that we should be sliding somewhere along a spectrum ranging from complicated and emotional, to furious and downright mental. Not that I'm saying we're entirely to blame for our, erm, 'ways'. There are of course certain times in a woman's life that we become slaves to our biology and hormones control us like puppets on strings. For at least one week a month I am magically transformed into a spotty, angry, migraine-addled maniac with an insatiable appetite for pork scratchings and Haribo. And I recall at least one occasion during pregnancy where I broke down sobbing in the baking aisle at Asda because they'd not got any Aunt Bessie's batter mix.

All of the above was entirely beyond my control. Indeed, while men may claim we hide behind our hormones, they can be used as perfectly valid excuses (sorry, REASONS) as to why we act so irrationally at times. In fact, insanity as a result of PMS has been used in murder defences; you might want to remember that fella's, next time you get smart mouthed about 'that time of the month'.

One thing I'll never understand about women (and I'm included in this by the way) is how we act towards one another. Having worked in several different environments over the years, I can say without any hesitation that women are AWFUL to work with. And while we have our good points as friends, you don't want to make an enemy of a woman. No sirree. We're fiercely jealous - of anyone better looking/thinner/curvier/longer-haired/cleverer/younger/more qualified/funnier/more popular than us. But do we use this jealousy to drive us to improve our own situation or appearance? Do we chuff. We badmouth and bitch about each other, as though the more moaning we do, the better we'll feel about ourselves. When you're talking about celebrities, this does actually work. Who here has sat ripping the proverbial out of Cheryl Cole's voice whilst the voice in the back of your head is hissing "damn that cow with her big doe-eyes and tiny waist!"?? Yes, you can put your hands down now ladies. But when we're talking about real life, and the people we actually have to talk to or work with, this is where things get difficult. No-one likes to be on the receiving end of gossip or nastiness, or the subject of bitching.

Life would be so much simpler if we were all men. Men are simple creatures who are easy to fathom and, more importantly, want an easy life. You know where you are with men (in a bedroom smelling of farts and in a bathroom with the seat up mainly). Being a woman isn't so bad though, and I do admit to enjoying a good old bitchfest over a glass of plonk - especially when I can blame it on my hormones. Just a quick warning though - if you see me with pork scratchings and Haribos - run for the hills!

Working girl.

I must sincerely apologise. I have been neglectful of my ramblings of late - so much so that the end of my 'halfway to seventy' year (and the entire reason for me writing this) has been and gone. There is a good reason for this, which does partly excuse my slacking...I have a job! I must admit, lots of things have gone to the dogs since I started work; the childers are now latchkey kids who rummage through bins to find something for their school lunches, and the garden is now an overgrown cesspit with the neighbourhood cats drinking stagnant water out of a broken and abandoned washing machine on our front lawn. I jest of course, things aren't quite that bad. My obsessive cleaning has taken a back seat, with the house seeing a cursory vacuum if I get chance. In fact, I have been toying with the idea of just hoovering the cats with a dustbuster of a morning to save even more time.

It's not often in life you find something that a) you enjoy and b) you're quite good at. And I've found it, being a support worker in the local community. Lots of people have said to me "I don't know how you do it" and the like. And to be honest, if you'd told me seven or eight years ago that this is what I'd be doing, then I'd have said you were mad. But having kids does a lot to change your opinion on caring and all that it entails. When you regularly have to go excavating in the bogeymines of a three year old boy, when you've been up and down the stairs all night changing the bedding of a child that's covered their bedroom in sick, well - everything else is a walk in the park. Caring is probably the worst paid, but most noble of professions. The Daughter is especially proud of what Mummy does. I wear a uniform, therefore I'm a nurse. And when I do sleeping-in shifts she says "Are you having a sleepover tonight Mummy?", as though my 75 year old service user and I will be sitting in a den we've made from a sheet and two dining chairs enjoying a midnight feast of Haribo and cheese-strings. Which, of course, we do but Sssh - keep it to yourselves.

As much as I love having some responsibility outside of the family, it's not all been plain sailing. Understandably the kids have missed Mummy being there at bedtimes and to take them to school, and we've had some 'issues' with The Daughter acting up for attention. Thanks to a fantastic rota this week I've been able to do the school run, and on the way home today The Daughter ran out into the road outside school, resulting in Mummy having a cardiac arrest and screeching like a fishwife in the street. Now though, with the benefit of hindsight, I wonder if she was so desperate for some attention that she calculated the risk of throwing herself in front of a Honda Civic. Doubtful, but who knows what goes on in the mind of a six year old? And anyway, I keep dangling the promise of a holiday to Disneyland in front of her, now Mummy is earning. That should placate her for at least another 6 months.

I hope you will accept this as a genuine reason for my lack of blogging, and offer some understanding if my childlets turn up to school looking like street urchins with Dairylea Dunkers and a handful of cat biscuits for their lunch. I've joined the ranks of the working mums; permanently knackered but smiling with a sense of purpose. On that note I must leave you - I have to be up early to hoover the cats. Na-night!x

My big fat...Infants disco.

Just before half term, it was The Daughter's 'Valentines Disco' at school. I've never really been involved in those sorts of things (other than dropping her off looking reasonably presentable, and picking her up an hour later looking like a sweaty mess. Her, not me.) but being the dedicated parent I am, I offered my services to help out on the night. 'How much work can it be?' I thought, 'I'll just be standing around watching a room full of 5/6 year olds flinging themselves about to cheesy pop songs and making sure any whirling-induced vomit puddles are cleaned up before anyone skids on it''. Oh, what a poor naive soul I am.

As I walked in, a flashing and very professional looking DJ rig was set up at one end of the school hall, and at the far end was a couple of trestle tables groaning with carbs, fat, colourings and sugar. An organisy-looking woman marched up to me with a clipboard, told another helper she was on toilet duty (which was not received well) and informed me I was on the tuck shop counter. I rolled my sleeves up, went to my post to familiarise myself with the price lists, and waiting as the throngs of exciteable kiddies poured through the doors.

And the rest of the evening was nothing but a blur. I remember going in, and then an hour later there I was - a sweaty, nervous wreck with a pounding headache. From the second the tuck shop opened and solidly for an entire hour, there was what can only be described as a sea of tiny trendsters all thrusting coins in my face, and dozens of grasping hands dipping in to the boxes of  Freddo's and Poppets. There weren't many who knew what coins were worth what amount, so I was having to rummage in tiny silver purses to count out 25p in pennies, and shout others back for their change after they'd handed me a pound coin and walked off, too desperate to get into their Flumps to wait.

I was stuck in 'Mum' mode, and had to bite back from saying "Are you sure you've not had enough?" to those who had consumed enough sugar to warrant Dr Christian Jessen emerging from behind a curtain with giant posters of leg ulcers and rickets. The Daughter came behind the counter holding hands with one of her friends who felt sick. "Maybe you should stop eating for a little bit and just sit down to cool off for a bit?" I suggested. "Ok" she said, as she threw a handful of Mentos in her mouth and then went back to the dancefloor. Ah yes, the dancefloor. The only thing that distracted my attention from the crowds clamouring for sweets was the sight of 50-odd small children gyrating away to 'Sexy and I know it' in a way more suited to a Gypsy wedding. There was a lady standing at the front who worked with the DJ, and every time a well known song they came on she would teach them the dance moves. Not that they needed it! As they all did the dance to 'Gangnam Style', shouting the words in unison, I stood - jaw wide open - thinking How the hell do they know this?! I resolved at that moment that The Daughter was to listen only to Disney songs until her 18th birthday.

To round off the night, we ended with a display of fireworks. And by fireworks I mean a tantrum from The Daughter, after I gently suggested she save the rest of her Love Hearts for the next day. Anyone would have thought I'd just made her choose between setting fire to all of her clothes or shaving her head in front of the entire school. In summary, it was one of the longest hours of my life. And next time (if there IS a next time), I'm volunteering for toilet duty!

"Kirsty has much to say..."

Tis The Daughters parents evening next week! Not her first, that was last year in Reception. And that one was a proper rush, thanks to me being the last one of the night. Teach' had obviously got a casserole in the oven or was gagging to get back in time for Emmerdale, because after a "She's doing great - wish I had more of her in my class, any questions?" she was picking up her handbag and ushering me out of the room. I was just relieved that she'd not told me she'd been taking a poop in the cloakrooms or punching people (Jenny, not the teacher) to be honest, and safe in the knowledge that darling daughter was neither a total thickie or a hooligan I rushed home for Emmerdale.

In Jenny's first week in Year One, her teacher called me over, and without a word of a lie, had me in tears. I know my daughter better than anyone; I'm under no illusions that she can be a proper moo at times, but when it comes to school we've never had any problems with her behaviour. So when Teach' made her out to be quite possibly the worst child she'd ever had the misfortune to encounter I wondered what the dillydickens she could have done! Had she killed the headteacher and been caught trying to bury the body in 'the Peaceful garden' (which is a paradox - how can anywhere be peaceful when it's got kids in it?)? Had she put a whoopie cushion covered in glue on to the Teachers seat and then led the class out in a riot through the village? No. Her heinous crime was that she'd not been sitting on her chair properly. After crying out some angry tears (in the privacy of my own home of course) I spoke to The Daughter, fully expecting her to say she hated school and didn't want to go ever again. But no, she didn't give a rats ass and liked the Teacher, much to my confusion and relief.

So as parents evening fast approaches, I wonder what delights await. The Daughter is very much like Mummy; enjoys and is good at English but just about copes with anything numerical. And loves to talk. My school reports were usually really good, but my parents came to accept and expect the phrase "Kirsty has much to say..". Which basically means 'will not stop bloody talking!' I remember to this day being so engrossed in my conversation with a friend about Bros that when the deputy headmaster came up beside me in class and said "Kirsty?", I responded crossly with "What, dad?!" Strangely, he didn't find it half as funny as my classmates did. So if The Daughter follows in my footsteps, I won't be too disappointed - I didn't turn out too badly despite the verbal diaorrhea. And you know what? I still don't stop talking!

The truth, the whole truth, and nothing near the truth.

I would just like to clarify that, no matter what you may hear to the contrary, I do NOT have hairy boobs. That statement does have context by the way, more on that later.

I really dislike lying; I think it's incredibly disrespectful and for the most part it's unnecessary. Obviously there are times when a small white lie is called for and goodness only knows I'd be fibbing if I said I'd never fibbed, but the vast majority of lies are harmful and used for self-preservation rather than to spare someone elses feelings. It's pretty hard feeling so strongly about this when I have a daughter who is a compulsive fibber. That girl would swear blind she'd not got a hole in her bum and the sky was pink.  She's not been too bad of late to be fair to her, but we went through a period of months where barely a true word left her little mouth.  Like the time I found that some of my sweets had disappeared and had mysteriously shed their wrappers under The Daughters pillow. Obviously she had no idea how they got there. Similarly no idea about how the toilet seat got broken or red felt tip got on her bedsheets or how a big piece of lettuce covered in mayonnaise ended up under the table. And the most frustrating bit is that she never admits to anything, unless she literally has no choice. That girl holds up so well to questioning that I start to believe she's had some kind of formal interrogation training; I could tie her to a chair, shine a light in her eyes, and force her to watch News24 for days on end, and she'd still not crack and admit that it was her who stuck the Buzz Lightyear sticker on the back of the dining chair.

There must be a clear line, somewhere between The Boychild's age and The Daughter's age, where sweet and innocent becomes cynical and wily because as of yet - at three and a half - he hasn't learnt to lie. The other day I went into the hall to find the curtains, still attached to the curtain pole, lying on the floor. "Charlie" I asked him, "Did you pull the curtains down?" Without a second of hesitation he said "Yep", as though I'd just asked him if he liked kittens.

Of course, by some strange irony, while she is so stubborn when it comes to owning up, when it comes to things you actually want keeping on the QT, they're fair game for the world to hear. For example, The Boychild has been having some problems in the toilet department. And by that I mean he can't poo. Actually, he WON'T poo. And after a week of him sitting on the loo for hours putting more effort into wailing than into pooing, I went and bought some suppositories to try and get the poo bomb to explode. The Daughter went and told a load of her friends at school about her poor brothers misfortune and was most disgruntled when they laughed! I tried to explain that some things should be private, but heaven knows if it got through. And thus we arrive back at my (un)hairy boobs. Apparently she was insisting a few days ago to The Husband that Mummy has hairy boobs, and wouldn't accept otherwise. I was getting dressed yesterday when she looked me up and down and said "I told Daddy your boobs were hairy but they're not! It's just your bum!" And I was - and still am - too afraid to ask if she'd seen fit to divulge this information to her school friends. So if any of you should hear any such rumours about my hirsuteness, it came from The Daughter - and you can't believe a word she says..!!

Turning into my mum

When I say I'm turning into my mum, obviously I don't mean literally. There'd be a few shocked faces if I woke up in the morning having shrunk ten inches and aged 30 years! And none more shocked than me (sorry Mum). No, of course I mean that all of those countless 'Mum-isms' you try to ignore as a kid and think there is no way you'll catch yourself repeating, I now find myself liberally sprinkling about my daily doings. A few examples - "Don't come crying to me when you poke your eye out/break your leg/split your head open", "Tidy all these toys up now or they'll be in black bags waiting for the bin men when you get home from school", "Pick your feet up!" to name but a few.

These Mum-isms have crept up on me, and became part of my daily intercourse (*sniggers at the I word, just to prove I'm not a proper grown up*), without me even realising. And now that I've started I can't seem to stop, they just fly out of my mouth. If I'm completely honest, I think there's a teeny tiny part of all parents that secretly revels in the delight of an 'I told you so' moment when it comes to your kids. I don't mean for a second that you want them to get hurt just to prove you right, I just mean that when something does happen, it's sometimes reassuring to know that all of your constant warnings haven't totally been in vain!

Take for example, The Daughter - stubborn little madam that she is. She goes at things like a bull at a gate, and has just started to do that eye rolling thing whenever you say something she doesn't like (fairly often by all accounts). It's a miracle she hasn't been properly hurt by now because she does some seriously idiotic things, and that combined with her innate clumsiness is a recipe for disaster. I sent her upstairs a few days ago to get changed out of her school uniform before tea. Five 'shouting up the stairs reminders' later, I heard a piercing scream. I flew up the stairs and found her (still wearing her bloody uniform!) with her hand stuck inside a ladybird umbrella. Somehow, and the truth still remains unspoken, she had tried to open the umbrella in her bedroom, and had caught the skin on the palm of her hand inside the bit where the pole clicks into place. Ouch indeed. I was as panicked as she was, and I hadn't got a clue how to get her out. I tried to unfold the umbrella and she screamed "JUST LEEEEEAAAAAAVVVVEE IIIIIIITTTTTT!" at me, to which I inwardly (and probably outwardly too) shouted back "How am I meant to just leave you for Chrissakes?! You're going to go to bed tonight and to school tomorrow with your skin pinched in a ladybird umbrella are you? Child and brolly as one, in perfect pissing harmony?!"

Five minutes of wrangling and shrieking later, and she was out. I didn't know what to do first - give her a cuddle or give her a huge rollicking for doing something so stupid. So I did both at the same time. I told her that all those times I'd warned her when she did something silly or dangerous was to try and stop her from getting hurt. I'd hoped she would sink into my arms, sobbing that she was sorry Mummy, that she'd listen to me from now on Mummy, and that you were right Mummy. Did she? Did she chuff. The Husband went upstairs to see what the commotion was about and she screamed at him that it was all my fault! At which point I could cheerfully have wrapped that bloody brolly round her neck.

I guess I have to face the fact that, not only have I turned into my mum, but that in my daughters eyes, everything I say and do is to ruin her fun. Just like I thought when I was a kid. So next time you see me out, and I'm bellowing after the kids "Stay where I can see you or someone will steal you and sell you to the gypsies!", don't pity me. Just give me a small nod, and let me know that I'm not alone.

Bird and snow watching.

Let's just get this out the way shall we; I hate snow. There is literally no reason for us to have it. Rain and sun serve a purpose - all forms of life rely on them for food and growth. But snow? Absolutely pointless, we don't need to have it at all. Looks lovely out the window and on Christmas cards, but actually being out in it is rubbish. I am much too busy concentrating on not doing the 'skid, straighten up and sly-look-around to see if anyone saw' dance to donate so much as a second to enjoying it. It also brings out the extreme mard-arse in me; I wish I could enjoy getting smacked in the chops with a lump of ice all in the name of 'fun', frostbitten fingers and earache, but I've tried and I just can't.

And, it would appear, The Boychild has pretty strong feelings about the cold white stuff too. While mine is a simple preference of being warm, dry and comfortable over being cold, wet and miserable, his is a sheer terror which seems to have come from nowhere. Along with loud noises, flies, bees, spiders, fireworks and the rag and bone man, snow has joined the seemingly endless list of things he is scared of. I knew we were in for a bit of trouble when he wouldn't walk over the grass this mornng to get in the car. And my patience was wearing a bit thin when he whinged all the way to pre-school because he wanted carrying. (He was wearing snowboots and squeezing the bejesus out of my hand - there was no way that boy was falling unless I went first and took him with me).

But when I went to fetch him at home time, we had a full on melt-down before we'd even left the building. After ten minutes of him standing in the middle of the path (which, incidentally was clear because the snow had pretty much melted) screaming and generally in a state of hysteria, the last shred of my sanity went with the 15th comment of  "Big dafty doesn't like the snow much haha!"to gawping onlookers. We'd gone way past the point where gentle cajoling and reasoning with him was going to make a difference, so I did what any responsible parent would do; I bent down and hissed at him through gritted teeth "You've got two choices - you either wind your neck in and get walking, or I leave you here". He reluctantly chose to walk and scream, which I suppose was progress of sorts.

So yes, I'm hoping to wake up in the morning and find it all gone. Probably not as much as Boyface is though! Changing the subject slightly, I saw an advert today for the RSPB. They're having a campaign - The Big Garden Birdwatch - whereby they ask the public to spend an hour looking at all the birds in their gardens, and let them know what we see. This proper tickled me. Because not only am I useless at telling my swans from my budgies (well, maybe not quite that bad), birds don't survive long in our garden. A few years ago we had a rabbit, Stephen, who used to chase birds if they landed on the lawn. We once watched aghast as he charged at a magpie and pulled out one of it's tail feathers. He also used to chase the cats and try to pee on them, but that's another story. And with four cats, the only birds we're likely to see in the vicinity are dead ones. I did think about doing the RSPB thing, and sending back my results which would have looked something like this: 9.40am - small headless corpse (defeathered) seen under the trampoline. Breed - a brown one. 3.15pm - foot found next to the back fence. Breed - parrot? Possibly goose.

On second thoughts, this Ornithology lark could make quite an interesting hobby. Until I get a polite email request from the RSPB asking me for information on live birds seen and to stop sending them pictures and descriptions of dead ones! I'm probably better off sticking to my colouring books and daytime tv..

Back to life..back to reality

Don't get me wrong - I love my kids, I really really really do. But I literally cartwheeled them into the school grounds this morning, whilst whooping and wearing my 'Hurrah!' sandwich board. The last week of the Christmas holidays seemed to last an eternity, and I had a constant headache from all the teeth gritting I did: “I'm boooooooooooored!” *grits teeth while sarcastically asking if the mountain of new toys from Santa have suddenly been beamed up by the aliens leaving you with nothing but toilet roll tubes to play with* “Where are we going today? What do you mean we're staying in AGAIN?” *grits teeth while muttering how the mountain of new toys that aren't appreciated have cleared me out*. It's a wonder my teeth aren't worn down stumps. So yes, I was rather glad that normality has resumed and my little darlings were safely back in the bosoms of their institutions ( I do mean school and preschool by the way, I haven't packed them off to the workhouse).

With those precious hours of freedom stretching before me, I returned to the gym after a three week absence. It was a bit of a half hearted work out if I'm being honest, but I gave myself a small pat on the back for going when I could quite easily have stayed at home watching 'Relocating hoarders homes under the hammer in the country' (I did make that up but it sounds entirely plausible) and eating Cheerios from the box. I showered at the gym, and was disappointed to see so many new people there, obviously all having decided to lose weight/keep fit as their new year's resolutions. Not that I begrudge people the chance to improve themselves, not at all. My issue was that they were in and out of the toilets while I was trying to sit under the hand dryer and dry my hair. I refuse to pay 20p for a 30 second blast from the 'hairdryer' (and I use the term loosely) in the changing rooms, especially as it takes about £8 of 20p's to dry mine. So I wait until the toilets are empty, and squat down below the hand dryers. Obviously I stand straight back up again should anyone walk in (I don't want to look like a proper cheapskate, even though I am), and after a few minutes of being up and down like a jack in the box, I gave up and walked out with a dry fringe and a helmet of wet hair.

It's a good job I don't go to the gym to actually lose any weight, because I don't need Rosemary Conley or Dr Christian 'I've had a hair transplant' Jesson to tell me that it's not good form to do your workout and then eat a packet of Tangfastics and a Double Decker (chocolate bar, not a bus) in the car on the way home. Oops. So things are at last settling down into the daily routine. All I need now is for Neighbours to return to the telly and all will be well with the World. You may remember I started this blog adamant that I was being dragged into being halfway-to-seventy kicking and screaming? Well it would seem, from rereading the things I write, that my resolve is loosening and I am almost happily accepting a sedentary lifestyle, welcoming a quiet and simple routine to the day. If I start wearing slacks and using words like 'pottering' and 'trendy', you have my permission to give me a sharp slap!

New Years desolations..

Here we are, a mere 4 days into 2013 and already we've had our yearly quota of bad luck and stuff to be pissed off about. The Husband and I didn't see New Year in - we were in bed. Asleep. Well, he was. I actually saw midnight with The Daughter who was awoken (sobbing and more than a bit furious) by the ridicuously loud fireworks. The Boychild has already been struck down by illness; I kind of knew that was coming though as we don't seem to be able to complete a fortnight without him puking or being dealt a dose of boy flu. During a water change of the fish tank, two of the remaining four Guppies lost their lives and The Husband rejoiced that the household was two time and money guzzling pets down. He had cause to celebrate once more this morning, as one of our guinea pigs - Margot Von Snugglesworth died. I got up, and en route to the bathroom I heard a strange noise, which turned out to be Margot breathing. The poor little bugger was lay on her side looking very poorly, so I picked her up and put her on my knee. Within a minute she had gone, almost like she was waiting for me. There was no love lost between our piggies, Margot and Custard, but I wasn't sure how Custard would take the loss of her cage-mate. Turns out she doesn't give a rats ass! You could almost see her stretch her legs out and smile at the thought of not having to share her celery! And speaking of heartless responses, The Daughter wasn't much better. She was so emotional just after Margot passed over to Guinea heaven - she couldn't stop sobbing and drew a picture of Margot, her hot salty tears dripping down onto the paper. I was comforting her and trying to reassure her that our little piggy was in a better place, when she turned the tear-tap off, looked at me and said "Will you ask Nanna if she'll take me somewhere nice today, to take my mind off Margot?". She's her fathers daughter alright!!

Margot was buried in the Pet Cemetary (our flower border), joining the various furry friends that have touched our lives. The Husband was flinching with every spadeful of earth, in case he uncovered a semi-degraded body part or five. Barely had the ground been flattened than one of our cats went out and laid a fresh turd on top. I like to think of it as a mark of respect rather than an act of mindless shatting. RIP Margot Von Snugglesworth ♥

It's not all been bad news though. I won £100 playing online bingo a couple of nights ago, which put a smile on my face. And sent me spiralling headfirst into a gambling addiction no doubt. I decided to go into town today and spend a bit of the money on treating myself to a haircut. I knew there was a reason I'd previously stopped going to the salon I used today, having landed myself the stylist with all the customer relations skills of a pissed off camel. I made the mistake of visibly wincing when she told me how much my trim was going to cost, so she got her own back by washing my hair in cold water. I was a bit too frightened to say anything, and meekly nodded as she chuntered on about my dry ends, even though I was inwardly cracking myself up with jokes about her orange arms and cankles. Off I went, £30 and a millimetre of hair lighter, to look round the sales. I was served in new Look by a strange teenage thing with half a shaved head who had obviously been forced to ask "Did yer find what yer were looking for today?". I resisted the urge to say "Well no actually, where do you keep your pressure cookers?" and paid for my bargainous cardigan. And I have just realised that I sound like I've entered middle age.

Despite the animal bereavement and a brief emotional blip yesterday, I thought the bad luck might have run it's course. I should have known better really. Tonight I put a pizza in the oven for the kids tea, and after ten minutes a strange smell filled the air. "What's that?" The Husband asked. "Burnt cheese probably" I replied.  But when the oven went 'BINK!', and all the appliances in the house switched off, we knew there was a fault not caused by a stray bit of Monterey Jack. The bloody oven has broken; the oven that The Husband had bought less than a year ago, crowing that it was so cheap he could afford a new hob too! Let this be a lesson to you dear, as you tear the house apart looking for the receipt for the World's cheapest oven; cutbacks aren't always a good thing. And while we're on the subject of cutbacks, I'll be starting back at the gym tomorrow after 3 weeks doing nothing but almost constant eating. I have a dilemna though. We have so much festive filth left! Do I a) eat a bit of it every day until it's gone (June, probably) or b) spend the next week gorging myself stupid to get rid of it all before I begin my health kick? Decisions, decisions. Although, if we can't get a new oven sorted, the whole family will be living off turkish delight and Twiglets...

Happy new year everyone!